


Of Oak Galls and Ink

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Dad!Ciaran, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Happy days at the monastery, Kid!Diarmuid, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Diarmuid is nine years old and ready to help Ciaran make ink for the monastery's manuscripts. He's extremely excited to help with this very important task as well as the chance to spend quality time with his favorite monk.A belated Father's Day fic.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid & Brother Ciarán
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	Of Oak Galls and Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing but a happy father-son relationship and cheerful days at the monastery. Plus, some fun with the medieval ink-making process! Enjoy!

Once, when he’d been a _child_ Diarmuid had gotten the idea of making his own ink with a bit of cow’s milk and several handfuls of freshly tilled soil, picked clean of roots and worms. He’d mixed it in a hole in the ground he’d dug with his bare hands, relishing in how the dirt seemed to dissolve into the milk to create a fine, black liquid that could surely pass for ink.

But when he’d brushed his hands over the drying vellum in the yard, smearing the skin all over with tiny, smudged handprints, it’d been more like clay than ink and it had turned out more of a _brown_ , which wasn’t the right color at all. After this failure he’d simply decided to do his best with what he had, and Brother Bressel had found him pressing slivers of grass and flower petals to the vellum using his ink as a paste.

The slap to the head he’d gotten for _that_ had sent his ears ringing.

Nevertheless, the fine, black ink, kept safely secured in a little pot covered on Ciarán’s desk, continued to be a source of intense, unbridled fascination and curiosity. It was strictly forbidden, and like Adam and Eve and the fruit from the Garden of Eden he _craved_ it. It was so dark, like a starless night sky, and somewhat thicker than water. If he poured the stuff in his hands and let it run through his fingers would it stain his skin forever? Would it be warm, like the hot milk Ciarán gave him before tucking him into bed? Or cold, like rainwater fresh from storm clouds?

The mystery remained for _years_ until finally, now, at nine years of age, God, in all His infinite wisdom and grace, had heard two of his prayers. The first, that he will get to spend an entire day with Ciarán and _only_ Ciarán. And the second, just as exciting—that he will learn how to make ink, and while he will still practice writing on his wax tablet, Diarmuid will also finally be taught proper penmanship with a quill and parchment and, of course, _ink_.

During breakfast Diarmuid practically shook with excitement. His slices of bread, still warm from the oven, had scarcely hit the table before he scarfed them down. The bowl of thick porridge, made from almond milk, cracked wheat, dried currants, and a pinch of saffron from Ciarán’s spice rack, was half empty when he stood from the table, ready to pack for their adventure.

Ciarán shook his head.

"Finish your breakfast, Diarmuid," he said.

Diarmuid replied, "I'm not hungry anymore.” It wasn't exactly a lie. He was too excited and too impatient to continue eating. If he stopped now, they could start their day sooner. A whole, entire day of walking and talking with Ciarán, which was much like a normal day except they would be away from the monastery and the other monks and Diarmuid could ask all the questions he wanted and run around without being scolded and Ciarán could pick him up and put him on his shoulders and he would be able to see far and wide and then Diarmuid could tell him about everything he was missing all the way down there—

Ciarán handed him the spoon. "We have a very busy day ahead of us," he said, "Because we've been assigned a very important task. And you'll need all your strength so that you can be my helper. Eat at least two more bites, and then we can get ready to leave."

Diarmuid eagerly shoveled _four_ gigantic spoonfuls into his mouth, beaming as he chewed when Ciarán smiled and ruffled his hair.

* * *

Once they made it out of sight of the monastery’s shadow and the abbot’s stern gaze Diarmuid gave a whoop of joy and ran. He had no real destination; Ciarán was the leader and kept a steady pace behind him. Diarmuid sprinted to and fro and in circles and charged back towards Ciarán’s direction, making as if he would collide into the monk, but then dug the heels of his shoes into the ground and skidded into Ciarán’s arms, which were ready and outstretched as if he knew what Diarmuid had been planning the whole time.

“I’ve been attacked by a little beast! Mauled! Torn limb from limb! Oh, what will they say at the monastery?”

Squirming against Ciarán’s belly, Diarmuid said, “I’m not little!”

“But you are a beast!” His fingers tickled Diarmuid’s sides and so Diarmuid shoved him away, shrieking with laughter, and again ran with abandon.

When he reached the forest’s edge he heard Ciarán call, “Stop right there, lad. This is a fine spot.” Diarmuid glanced around. It appeared to him there was nothing particularly new and exciting to be found here. An open field of green on one side and a number of ancient, gnarled oak trees whose branches reached skyward on the other. Though, upon further scrutiny they still appeared to be perfect for climbing. What luck!

“Ciarán, the oak trees! Can I—“

“Ah, did you guess? Smart boy. That’s what we’re here for. Our first step in making ink.”

Diarmuid frowned. “The oak trees?”

“What’s _on_ the trees. Look here.” Ciarán pointed at a branch. Clustered around the leaves was something that appeared to be of a similar shape and size to a pile of hazelnuts. Plucking one from the tree, Diarmuid asked, “What are these?” He rolled it around in his palm. It was quite hard. Maybe it was a nut? But oak trees dropped acorns.

Ciarán set down the small basket he’d strapped to his back and said, “Oak galls. Go ahead and gather them up.” He pulled some from the tree and threw them into the basket. “Go on.”

While Ciarán picked them one by one, Diarmuid pulled up his robes to make a little pouch to hold his harvest until he was _laden_ with oak galls. They clattered together as he walked, the shells clacking and clicking against each other. “Ciarán, what are these? What are oak galls?”

“They’re what forms when wasps lay their eggs on the trees.”

Diarmuid stared at him, aghast. “What?”

“When the wasps lay their eggs on the branches, the oak gall grows around them.”

He stared at heap the oak galls gathered in his robes. He dropped them with a cry, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Ciarán, there’s _wasps_ in these?”

“No, no, Diarmuid, they’ve already—“

“We’ll get _stung_! Ciarán!” He buried his face in the monk’s robes, the coarse fabric a welcome source of comfort as Ciarán gently stroked his hair and shushed him.

“Look, my dear, look here.” Ciarán knelt down and grabbed one of the dropped oak galls from the dirt and showed it to Diarmuid. “See here? What’s that, on the side?”

Diarmuid sniffled. “It’s—a hole?”

“Yes. The eggs hatch and the wasps grow and then they crawl out. They’re all empty, you see? There’s nothing to worry about.”

With a hiccup, Diarmuid took the proffered oak gall and turned it about in his hand. It was still quite heavy—was there really nothing left inside? He shook it near his ear, hoping that it would rattle, but it did not. He stared at Ciarán.

“They’re gone?”

“They’re gone. They flew away long ago.”

Upon this last confirmation and a hug Diarmuid solemnly went back to collecting oak galls for the basket. He picked up all the ones he had dropped, brushing them off for good measure, and tossed them into the container. Then he set about stripping the tree of as many of its oak galls as he could find. He warmed quite quickly to the work and soon the tree’s limbs were plucked clean of the little masses. Which only left one direction to go in.

"Ciarán, the best oak galls are near the top of the tree," Diarmuid said with the sage wisdom of someone who had most definitely not just learned about the existence and nature of oak galls in the past hour.

The monk brushed his palms on his robes. He gave Diarmuid a knowing look. "Ah, I see. Well, if you must climb, you little imp, then be careful. If you fall to the ground and shatter I'll just sweep you up and put you in the basket with everything else."

Diarmuid had already scampered up the tree halfway through Ciarán's warning. Hanging from a hefty branch, he called, "But you didn't bring a broom, though."

"Then don't fall."

Everyone at the monastery thought that squirrels, being small, chatty creatures that were always getting into places they weren’t supposed to, were quite comparable to Diarmuid. The boy saw no real problem in this, as he thought the way the animals jumped and climbed with such speed and skill necessitated some admiration. He imagined himself a squirrel as he climbed and giggled to himself. Then he thought of a small squirrel in monk’s robes, praying among the other men in the early hour of the morning, chittering away. He laughed harder.

“Diarmuid, be careful.”

“I am!”

Did squirrels ever fall? He’d never seen one do so. Maybe baby squirrels, when they were still learning. A rain of oak galls fell to dirt as he shook the branches. From way up high he could see the monastery in the distance, its buildings like the small piles of rocks he built on the beach while Ciaran fished or collected seaweed. Diarmuid shuffled forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of minuscule monks moving about the yard—

And then his hand missed the branch and he slipped.

He tumbled, bouncing off of tree limbs on the way down, grabbing desperately at them in an attempt to stay his fall but the rough bark of the branches merely scraped at his palms and fingers.

Diarmuid’s scream of panic was cut short as he slammed to the ground, _hard,_ on his back, knocking the air from his lungs. He lay there, stunned, and did not move, staring up at the treetops. Like an eclipse, Ciarán cast a shadow over his gaze, hiding the oak and its mocking, swaying branches from his line of sight. Diarmuid flinched—the man would probably be furious—but instead Ciarán’s face was white with fear and his hands fluttered over Diarmuid’s prone body.

“Oh, God, please, have mercy on me—Are you hurt, Diarmuid? Can you move? Wiggle your toes and fingers for me.”

His toes were safely ensconced in his shoes, but Diarmuid wiggled them anyway and then rolled his feet from side to side. He tapped his fingers into the dirt. Then, at Ciarán’s request, he gently moved his neck, turning his head, the grass brushing against his cheeks.

Ciarán hugged him tight. The fall had knocked the air out of him and Ciarán was now squeezing him breathless. “Thank you, Lord,” he breathed, “Oh, thank you. My boy.”

“You said you’d just sweep me up,” Diarmuid mumbled, a little confused, “That you’d put me in the basket.”

“Oh, never, _never_. I’ll carry you in my arms until I can’t anymore.”

Something in the man’s voice told Diarmuid that he was not in trouble but that Ciarán was nonetheless upset. He snuggled into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry I fell after you told me not too. I wasn’t careful enough.”

“Are you hurt? In any pain?”

He was a bit sore but that was probably to be expected. But nothing had torn or broken and Ciarán’s hugs had healing properties besides. So Diarmuid answered, “No, I’m okay.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Diarmuid considered all this. “You don’t have to carry me in your arms,” he said, “But can I ride on your shoulders on the way back?”

Ciarán laughed.

* * *

Once back at the monastery they took a small rest. Diarmuid gulped down almost a bucketful of fresh water and devoured two sweet red apples and then Ciarán had him checked for any injuries he might’ve missed. But there was nothing but a few bruises.

“Children are resilient,” the abbot said.

With a sigh, Ciarán said, “Ah, but even so. What a fright I received.”

Feeling a bit guilty, Diarmuid vowed to be on his best behavior for the rest of the day. He would be quiet and simply pay close attention to the rest of the lesson—which would be supremely difficult, since he was bursting at the seams with curiosity.

The first thing they had to do, to Diarmuid’s shock and cheer, was to _smash_ the oak galls with a hammer. “As fine as you can,” Ciarán said, “When you're done, place it in this container here.” Diarmuid crushed the oak galls to the best of his abilities. It wasn’t quite the texture of dry sand he’d hoped to be able to get it to, but even with a few large chunks he supposed it was close enough. He swept it into the container.

Next, Ciarán poured a jug of rainwater into the oak gall dust and pieces. Diarmuid was pleased. He hadn’t been _too_ far off with his dirt and milk ink, really. “You want the water to be as clear and fresh as possible. You can use good vinegar as well, if you have it.”

Diarmuid nodded. “What happens next?”

“We wait a few days for the tannin to leach out—“

“ _Days_?” Diarmuid cried.

“But, luckily, I’ve prepared a small batch already for our lesson. Quite smart of me, hm?”

Diarmuid set the container of fresh crushed oak galls and rainwater into the sunlight as Ciarán brought out a pot and a jug on his table. The pot was empty save for a lining of cheesecloth, while the jug had a dark brown liquid in it.

“That’s the steeped oak galls,” Ciarán said. “Pour it slowly into the pot.”

Diarmuid nodded. “Yes, okay.” Ciarán held his hands until the jug was nearly empty. The dark brown liquid dripped into the pot while the cheesecloth caught the oak galls. He wrapped and squeezed the cheesecloth to press out the rest of the liquid and then nodded and moved on.

“When does it get black, though?”

“That comes from the green vitriol.” He opened a small box filled with a light green powder. “Add some with a little bit more water. The solution will turn very black over time.”

“How long, though?”

“Patience, Diarmuid.”

Diarmuid stirred a spoonful of the green vitriol into the mixture, pouting when the liquid stayed true to Ciarán’s words and went darker, but did not immediately turn into finished ink. He handed the spoon to the monk and waited.

“Almost done. We need a binding so that the ink will stick to the parchment. We have dried tree sap dissolved in water for that.”

“Is that from the oaks too?”

“No, we collect this from cherry or plum trees. Whipped egg white will work as well, or fish glue—that’s boiled fish skin and bones.”

The very concept of fish glue delighted Diarmuid. “I could make fish glue! Next time let’s go fishing,” he insisted, “We can catch fish to eat and then we can use their bones for ink!”

Ciarán smiled. “Very economical of you. Now, we have to wait again—“

“No, Ciarán—“

“And when we come back from dinner it’ll be ready.”

After dinner? That was practically another entire day almost. But he supposed good ink took time. Diarmuid mumbled, “If you say so.”

* * *

He didn’t even taste dinner so preoccupied was he with the image of the ink turning black as they supped on dried fish and bread and vegetable stew. Diarmuid tore off pieces of his bread and dropped it into the stew, watching as it fell to the bottom of the bowl, dissolving like the tree sap and thickening the liquid.

“Don’t play with your food, Diarmuid,” one of the other monks said.

Diarmuid shoved a few spoonfuls into his mouth. “I’m not playing, I’m _eating_.” He spied a pile of fish bones on the monk’s plate. “Can I have those bones?”

“What?”

Ciarán cleared his throat. “I taught Diarmuid about fish glue today,” he said, “For the ink. Speaking of, abbot, may Diarmuid be excused to check on our mixture?”

Diarmuid’s head turned so quickly he almost got whiplash. The abbot gave a slight smile and a wave of the hand. “So eager to become a scribe? Go ahead, boy.”

He sprinted back to Ciarán’s cell and gasped at what he saw.

Lo and behold, a pot of fine, dark ink, black as anything. He was moments away from simply sticking his hand in it when Ciarán arrived behind him, chuckling. “Alright, my boy. That’s turned out well, hasn’t it? Why don’t you show me how it looks?” He handed Diarmuid a quill and a piece of parchment. “Sit here and test it out.”

Eyes wide, Diarmuid scrambled to the desk, quill in hand, and said, “Yes! But what should I write?”

“Whatever you want.”

A wide, vast amount of possibilities! But when Diarmuid took the time to think of it, there was really only one thing that came to mind. He said, “Okay. It’ll be a surprise.”

* * *

He was careful in his strokes, though his hand was still a bit unsteady. It was easier on the wax tablet. But he did not spill or smear any ink, and the final product was earnest if not particularly skillful. Diarmuid leaned back, admiring his work. There, on the parchment, in his own hand with the ink he and Ciarán had made, he had written:

_I LoVe You Ciarán_

_FRom Diarmuid_

He scampered to Ciarán with the parchment in hand. “Look, Ciarán, I wrote this with the ink and quill. Ciarán, look, look what I made you!”

The monk took it in his hands and read it. He said nothing, merely cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. He seemed to be reading it two, three, four times over even though it wasn’t a very long message at all.

Diarmuid frowned. “Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, now, Diarmuid,” Ciarán said, his voice thick with emotion, “This is truly very fine work.” He set the parchment on his desk with a shaking hand and opened his arms.

A hug! Diarmuid all but flew into his embrace.

“I love you,” Ciarán said.

And even though it was very obvious—he’d written it on the parchment in the pretty, new black ink after all—Diarmuid said, “I love you, too,” and hugged him all the tighter, safe and warm in Ciarán’s arms.


End file.
